1 2 3 4 5 Introduction 6 7 8 9 10 On a sunny Saturday morning in September 2007 the Park School celebrated its 11 annual New First-Graders reception.1 More than sixty proud six-year-olds with 12 huge school bags, new clothes, and the obligatory colorful large cardboard cone 13 stuff ed with small gift s and sweets (Schultüte), accompanied by parents, relatives, 14 and friends walked across the school yard toward the school’s gym. More than 250 15 people crowded into the gym, many standing along the walls for lack of seating. As 16 the crowd settled, the school’s principal, Ms. Bauer, dressed in an elegant dark red 17 suit with a necklace of matching large beads, greeted children, parents, and guests 18 and emphasized the importance of the day. Aft er her introductory remarks, she 19 presented the next set of speakers: a Protestant Minister, a Muslim Imam, and a lay 20 representative of the Catholic Church. Th e three religious representatives greeted 21 the children and their families and said a few words about the importance of learn- 22 ing for life, and the special nature of this day as a turning point in the lives of the 23 new fi rst graders. Th e three men were dressed in suits and ties. Aft er their brief 24 remarks, each spoke a prayer and asked for God’s/Allah’s blessing for these young 25 children in their new environment. Next the fourth graders performed a short 26 play and sang some songs. Overall, this was an event like many others in Germany. 27 Fanciful parties and receptions for fi rst graders have in recent years gained social 28 importance in Germany. Especially among the middle classes, they are celebrated 29 with relatives and friends and oft en include an outing to a restaurant. In a highly 30 secularized environment, where increasing numbers of the population offi cially 31 left the churches, for some families these lavish celebrations replace earlier reli- 32 gious rites of passage such as fi rst communion or confi rmation. Traditionally in 33 Germany, the fi rst day of school starts with a non-obligatory church service in a 34 local church. Th e service is followed by a festive reception in the school. 35 For many years the Park School, which is located in Stuttgart-Nordbahnhof, 36 a multi-ethnic working-class neighborhood had a similar program with an ecu- 37 menical Christian service in a nearby church, and the school reception aft erward. 38 In 2006, however, less than ten people attended this service. Th is embarrassingly 39 low attendance triggered a rethinking of the event and its religious components 40 and resulted in a new mode of celebration. Instead of canceling the service, those 41 in charge chose a diff erent solution: religious elements were added to the (secular) 42

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1 school event. In the Nordbahnhof quarter, Muslims account for approximately 2 one third of the population. Obviously, Muslims or atheists had no interest in a 3 church service. German, Italian, Portuguese, Serbian, Croatian, Russian, and other 4 Christians either lived at a distance to their religion, or did not feel represented 5 by this particular church service. Others preferred to skip this 9 a.m. service and 6 only attend the school celebration an hour later. Th e redesigned celebration in 7 2007 addressed Muslims needs and integrated religious elements into the secular 8 celebration without overly stretching the patience of atheists, non-Protestant or 9 non-Catholic Christians, and others. Th e new event represented a suitable com- 10 promise for most local families.2 11 Th e Park School’s New First-Graders celebration is a cultural innovation ne- 12 gotiated in a multi-ethnic and multi-religious urban quarter. Th e presence of an 13 Imam at this public school celebration exemplifi es cultural changes that unfold 14 in an urban quarter where successive waves of ever more diverse residents and 15 immigrants have for more than a century been remaking local cultural forms and 16 practices, and by extension elements of the larger urban culture. In recent decades 17 Muslims have become an important constituency in Nordbahnhof. Th ey have 18 been playing a signifi cant role in the quarter’s cultural transformations. At a mo- 19 ment of rupture when the established practice of a Protestant/Catholic service in 20 a local church was no longer viable, parents, teachers, the school’s administration, 21 and representative of churches and mosques negotiated a mode of celebration that 22 refl ected changing local constituencies and dynamics. 23 Th e reorganization of this First Grade celebration is not an isolated instance 24 of creative cultural production, but exemplifi es larger changes underway in Nor- 25 dbahnhof and similar multi-ethnic working-class neighborhoods in Stuttgart and 26 other German cities. In small urban spaces ordinary residents constantly remake 27 local cultures to best accommodate their diverse habits, practices, beliefs, and sen- 28 sitivities. Th e Imam’s presence at the school celebration symbolizes larger dynam- 29 ics of localization, cultural creativity, civic participation, and inclusion of Muslims 30 and their lifeworlds in German cities. However, not all debates and negotiations 31 involving Muslim needs are as smooth and successful as the Park School First 32 Grade celebration. Other instances of Muslim participation are met with resent- 33 ment and prejudice, or outright rejection and hostility. Th e question arises, why 34 do some urban cultural transformations unfold smoothly, while other similar at- 35 tempts end in bitter controversies? What are the elements and dynamics that ac- 36 count for the success of some negotiations and the failure of others? How does 37 a religion become local? How do believers insert their beliefs and practices into 38 contemporary cityscapes? 39 Th e dynamics of Muslim localization, participation, and inclusion in German 40 cities unfold in multilayered contexts of national legal frameworks, specifi c forms 41 of secularism, powerful landscapes of popular sentiments and media images, 42 grass roots activities, global political and religious dynamics, and everyday urban

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practices and cultures. Reactions of dominant society and political elites to the 1 presence of Muslims and the emergence of urban German Muslim identities, re- 2 ligiosities, and cultures alternate between neglect, ignorance, paternalistic accom- 3 modation, prejudice, resentment, hostility, support, recognition, and accommo- 4 dation. Some communities were able to build a mosque without much opposition 5 and debate. Others fought long and painful battles to build a mosque. Yet others 6 were prevented from doing so altogether. A few pious Muslims have become rec- 7 ognized and respected participants in the urban public sphere; their interventions 8 are heard and honored. Simultaneously, “Muslims” are frequently accused of a 9 predictable list of shortcomings (forced marriages, oppression of women, blind 10 following of Islamic law, putting Islamic law above national laws/constitutions) 11 that are said to prevent them from ever becoming full-fl edged citizens in a liberal 12 democracy. What accounts for this highly unpredictable atmosphere with regard 13 to Muslims and their religious, cultural, and civic role, needs, and demands? Why 14 is it, on the one hand, so diffi cult for Muslims to build a mosque and become vis- 15 ible and vocal participants and creative cultural producers in Germany, when, on 16 the other hand, Muslim localization is successfully underway in contexts like the 17 Park School celebration? 18 Th is book explores pious Muslim lifeworlds, religiosities, civic participation, and 19 cultural production in the southern German state capital of Stuttgart (state of Baden- 20 Württemberg). I illustrate that the localization and inclusion of pious Muslims is a 21 complicated process that reacts to diff erent dynamics and unfolds on a multitude 22 of platforms. It is mediated by national debates about the role and rights of religion 23 in general and Islam in particular in society, culture, and politics, discussions about 24 the defi nition of citizenship, and controversies over the loyalty of Muslims to the 25 German Constitution (Grundgesetz). Th ese debates are politically charged and con- 26 troversial. Concrete points of contention question if and how a “new” religion can be 27 inserted into existing political, social, and religious structures. How much religion 28 is good anyway? How is “good” religion practiced? What exactly is Islam? Who are 29 Muslims? Can they be part of a secular liberal society? Can they live under the Ger- 30 man constitution? How many mosques should be built? What is the place of Islam, 31 Muslims, Muslim religiosities, and pious Muslim lifestyles and practices in the con- 32 text of a twenty-fi rst-century globalized metropolis? Th ese abstract debates, local 33 and global dynamics, and individual lifeworlds converge in concrete urban spaces 34 where diverse individuals and groups try to create meaningful lives for themselves, 35 their families, and communities. In order to understand the inclusion of immigrant 36 cultures and religions it is paramount to examine the minutiae of everyday lives and 37 transformations in spaces like the Park School where diverse individuals meet and 38 create cultural compromises. Emerging urban practices, while rarely publicly recog- 39 nized oft en become models for others to follow. 40 Since 9/11, debates about Islam in Germany and Europe have taken on an un- 41 precedented urgency. In public debates, local issues (e.g. mosque construction, 42

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1 debates about the hijab/headscarf) are oft en confl ated with global concerns about 2 terrorism and militant Islam. Th e resulting atmosphere of fear, mistrust, and re- 3 sentments has produced serious setbacks for Muslims’ civic participation (Cesari 4 2010b; Monshipouri 2010; Spielhaus 2013; Yıldız 2009). At the same time, the 5 precarious economic situation of some individuals and families as a result of the 6 economic restructuring in Europe has produced a situation where immigrants or 7 other seemingly “superfl uous” populations are targeted as the scapegoats for vari- 8 ous political, social, and economic ills (Bauman 2007: 29). Already caught on the 9 margins of society, with lower than average incomes, education, and housing (Ce- 10 sari 2010b: 19), many Muslims have in recent years felt the brunt of governments’ 11 and citizens’ anger and resentment in the face of global political insecurity, and 12 neoliberal economies’ local fallout (Cesari 2010a; Bauman 2007; Yeğenoğlu 2012). 13 Sharper immigration regulations, citizenship tests, discrimination, and prejudice 14 are just a few of the issues Muslim immigrants and citizens have been facing in 15 the early twenty-fi rst century (Monshipouri 2010; Spielhaus 2011). As the overall 16 picture oft en appears diffi cult for Muslims in Europe, the question arises whether 17 diff erent spaces and experiences exist? Are there moments and spaces of mutual 18 respect, social and cultural recognition, civic participation, and creative coopera- 19 tion? How are pious Muslims and their communities woven into existing urban 20 cultural and religious geographies? Are there spaces that produce cultural trans- 21 formations that refl ect Muslim needs and participation? Do certain urban changes 22 benefi t pious Muslims? What concrete contributions, interventions, and models 23 are being articulated in small urban spaces? 24 John Bowen (2010) asked “Can Islam be French?” and examined debates about 25 Islamic law and its possible convergence with French secular law. He illustrates 26 that Muslim legal scholars in France and Muslim majority contexts have engaged 27 in lively discussions about the possibility of making Muslim law work for Muslims 28 in France from within the “Muslim realm of justifi cations” (ibid.: 157). Bowen 29 asks how individuals and communities can simultaneously abide by Muslim and 30 French law. He identifi es processes that would allow for a convergence of legal 31 understandings where both sides could remain within their respective religious 32 or philosophical realms of justifi cation. Bowen concludes that such a convergence 33 could be reached if all parties were willing to revisit legal debates with an open 34 eye to social realities and intended legal consequences. He concludes that Muslim 35 legal scholars in France and elsewhere have already gone a long way to address 36 some legal problems and dilemmas that pious Muslims face in Muslim minor- 37 ity contexts. He encourages the French legal establishment to follow suite and do 38 their homework of reworking, with their tools and justifi cations, a number of le- 39 gal issues pertaining to current disputes that involves Muslims. In this book I ask 40 related questions: How is Islam lived in German cities? How does Islam work as 41 a guiding principle in urban lifeworlds and cultures? Under which conditions do 42 Muslims and their communities join the larger landscape of urban religions? How

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is Islam made into a German religion in minute everyday interactions? What does 1 a German Muslim urban culture look like? What processes and transformations 2 are underway, which facilitate the creation of vibrant Muslim spaces, practices, 3 and lifeworlds? What are the concrete steps, experiences, and contributions of pi- 4 ous Muslims and their communities to the making and remaking of urban cul- 5 tures and public spheres? How are Muslims practices woven into an increasingly 6 diverse urban cultural fabric? How do largely secularly defi ned cityscapes change 7 in the process of such transformations? My central question is how do pious Mus- 8 lims, as individual and communities, negotiate meaningful urban lives, spaces, 9 cultures, and public spheres that they can inhabit both as believers and involved 10 citizens? How can spaces, events, identities, encounters, or civic activities be si- 11 multaneously piously Muslim (lived and legitimated within the Islamic tradition) 12 and part of urban liberal cultural and public spheres? 13 In recent years, much ink has been spilled (and sound bites and images pro- 14 duced) in the German media about Islam and Muslims. Favorite topics include 15 women and Islam (how oppressed are they?), political Islam (will Germany one 16 day be run over by political Islam?), or the legal problems of being a Muslim in 17 Germany (is halal—in accordance with Muslim law—butchering violating animal 18 rights?). Debates about whether pious Muslims can be loyal German citizens, and 19 whether they really intend to respect the Grundgesetz are in full swing. Simulta- 20 neously, there are debates and images circulating that aim to “disclose” aspects of 21 Islam and Muslim lives that supposedly make it hard, if not impossible, for many 22 pious Muslims to become loyal German citizens. Focusing on, or at times even ob- 23 sessing with, subjects such as women, honor killings, forced marriages, terrorism, 24 and the role of violence in Islam, popular media and oft en also serious media ex- 25 perts insist on being able to identify the dangerous features of Islam and Muslims, 26 and hence warn non-Muslim society of the hidden dangers of Islam in Germany. 27 Some pundits off er their expertise to distinguish between “good” Muslims (those 28 who are not too insistent on their religious practices and affi liations) and “bad” 29 Muslims (those who tightly hold on to religion and its supposedly anti-liberal 30 features; see Mamdani 2004). Considerable parts of such debates remain stereo- 31 typical and ideological.3 Th ey feed on simplistic opposites of “us” versus “them,” 32 or “insiders” versus “outsiders” (see Shooman and Spielhaus 2010). Concerned 33 citizens are provided with images that tend to enhance fears, and reinforce ste- 34 reotypes and prejudices they were harboring all along. Diff erences are frequently 35 stressed while relative silence prevails about commonalities and shared lifeworlds. 36 Ordinary pious Muslims, their lifeworlds, voices, civic participation, and cul- 37 tural production rarely fi gure in public debates. Muslims are seldom depicted as 38 active debaters of their own lifeworlds, traditions, subjectivities, and religiosi- 39 ties. Rarely are they identifi ed as creative producers of local cultures. Muslims 40 are seldom portrayed as regular citizens, workers, students, discussants in the 41 public sphere, or individuals, who like everybody else suff er the consequence of 42

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1 environmental pollutions, increases in sales taxes, cuts in health insurance ben- 2 efi ts, bad weather, or icy roads. Instead, occasional warnings are issued about the 3 pending danger of ethnic ghettos where “generic” Muslims supposedly live lock- 4 step by the outdated teachings of the Qur’an, or where Muslims might uncritically 5 consume the hateful teachings of fanatic import-Imams. Muslims appear in public 6 only with regard to Muslim issues (Spielhaus 2011: 156). If at the other end of the 7 world a Muslim commits an atrocity, local Muslims are called in to explain, or 8 worse to collectively apologize. 9 In this book I examine the lives of ordinary urban residents, neighborhoods, 10 and mosque communities. I examine how they debate and confi gure subjectivi- 11 ties, religiosities, lifeworlds, and urban cultures. I analyze moments and spaces 12 where Muslims and non-Muslims engage each other and create cultural forms 13 and everyday practices that accommodate their respective needs and sensibilities. 14 I ask: How have pious Muslims and their communities, in the face of resentment 15 and discrimination, managed to create meaningful lifeworlds and become creative 16 participants? How do Muslims participate in the city? What new forms, practices, 17 and spaces have Muslims created to accommodate their needs and sensitivities? 18 How have they inserted Islam into the urban religious topography? My central 19 argument is that the localization of Islam and Muslims is a process rooted in con- 20 crete urban contexts where individuals, groups, associations, communities, and 21 institutions debate ideas and practices, confi gure identities and religiosities, and 22 create lifeworlds that refl ect the needs of all involved constituencies. Th e point is 23 not whether Islam is compatible with liberal German democracy or the German 24 Constitution, but “rather under what conditions Muslims can make them compat- 25 ible” (Bayat 2007: 4; emphasis in the original). I am interested in the concrete situ- 26 ations and processes where individuals and groups negotiate practical solutions 27 and design ways to be involved citizens. 28 Instead of questioning whether Islam can have a space in German cities, I dem- 29 onstrate that Islam and Muslim religiosities are already integral parts of German 30 cities, as the process of their localization has been underway for decades. Th is lo- 31 calization can best be understood from a micro-level perspective. Like Lara Deeb 32 noted for the case of a pious Shi’a community in Beirut, “we need ethnography to 33 understand local dynamics of what has variously been called ‘Islamization,’ ‘Islam- 34 ic fundamentalism,’ ‘Islamism’” (2006: 5), the localization of Islam in German cit- 35 ies is best examined by way of ethnographic work. Considerable aspects of Muslim 36 cultural negotiation and production are overlooked by dominant society, because 37 they unfold in places that either go unnoticed or are not recognized as “public” 38 spaces, or locations of public debate. Moments of urban confl ict, neighborhood 39 talk, negotiations of individual identities, modes of participation, and association- 40 al lives illustrate the complex interactions of pious individuals with each other and 41 with diverse urban constituencies. 42

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While Islam does not have old historical roots in Germany, it has in recent 1 decades become a constituent element of urban cultural and religious landscapes. 2 In the process Islam and Muslims have become deeply and solidly rooted in cities 3 and their cultural and religious geographies. Muslim participation and the cre- 4 ation of new urban cultures happened less by way of grand political projects, but 5 by way of minute steps and compromises that paved the way for more visible and 6 established religiously inspired practices. In their everyday encounters Muslims 7 of diverse ethnicities and religiosities and their diverse neighbors, friends, and 8 colleagues (ethnic German and others, Christians of varying denominations and 9 religiosities, atheists, or individuals of other religious beliefs and backgrounds) ne- 10 gotiate individual identities and positions in society. Nobody remains unchanged, 11 as new identities, manners of participation, and social and cultural confi gurations 12 and practices emerge. Individual and collective everyday eff orts, experiences, and 13 transformations comprise the foundations of well-established and diverse life- 14 worlds, subjectivities, religiosities, everyday cultures, spatialities, and religious 15 topographies (Göle and Ammann 2004; Jonker and Amiraux 2006; Al-Hamarneh 16 and Th ielmann 2008). Th e inclusion of the Imam in the Park School celebration 17 bears witness to debates among parents, teachers, and students about how to best 18 adjust the daily life of a school to accommodate the needs of diverse stakeholders. 19 In such minute and mundane interactions, individuals, informal groups, and for- 20 mal associations articulate practices, invent new forms, design compromises, dis- 21 card some practices, and fi nd friends and allies. Th e key concerns of the majority 22 of urban dwellers are not philosophical questions of how state and religion relate 23 to each other. Instead people strive to give religion the space in their lives and the 24 city that they deem most desirable. 25 My goals in this book are to show that (1) Islam and Muslims are integral, in- 26 separable, and creative parts of a city like Stuttgart. Pious Muslims do not stand 27 or act apart from urban society, but are constituent members of the latter. Th ey 28 are insiders and act from within and not without. Like all urbanites, Muslims and 29 Muslim communities shape the city and are shaped by it. (2) Muslim Stuttgart is 30 not monolithic. It is a vastly diverse community with regards to ethnicity, culture, 31 politics, education, gender, age, class, and religiosity. (3) Muslim Stuttgart is a dy- 32 namic religious and cultural fi eld, where Islam, diverse lifestyles, practices, and 33 religiosities are under constant debate. Th is fi eld, in turn, is further engaged in 34 complex processes of negotiating local pious Muslim identities and practices that 35 interact with believers’ countries of origin and the global ummah (community of 36 believers). I illustrate that Muslim Stuttgart’s social and cultural wealth, dynam- 37 ics, and future potentials are rooted in its diversity, which sets the community 38 apart from urban contexts in Muslim-majority contexts. (4) I demonstrate how 39 public and media images continue to reproduce stereotypes about Islam and Mus- 40 lims that burden and obstruct eff orts of individuals and communities at equal and 41 42

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1 creative participation. Indeed these images considerably hinder the public recog- 2 nition and subsequent appreciation of Islam, Muslims, and Muslim activities as 3 constructive and constituent urban elements. (5) I unpack the complex nature of 4 the ongoing construction and negotiation of urban Muslim lifeworlds, practices, 5 and religiosities. Th ese negotiations are situated at complex personal and commu- 6 nal intersections of multilayered local, regional, national, and global networks and 7 dynamics. (6) Th e book portrays elements of the everyday lives of individuals and 8 communities, their religiosities, debates about selves and identities, communities, 9 society, and politics and their participation in the city. Pious Muslims in Stuttgart, 10 like elsewhere in Europe, are engaged in debates about their role and future in the 11 city, nation, and global ummah. (7) On a theoretical level, I seek to resituate de- 12 bates about Islam in Germany in the context of discussions about urban religions. 13 In recent years the discussion of Islam and Muslims in Germany (and Europe) 14 has been conducted in isolation from emerging debates about urban religions, 15 or religion in and of the city, creating a sense that Muslims are the only new re- 16 ligious group, or the only group that seeks to confi gure their urban participation 17 in a religiously inspired manner. Similarly, I depart from debates about “integra- 18 tion” of Muslims, which imply the recent arrival and foreign nature of Islam and 19 Muslims. My point is to analyze pious Muslim lifeworlds within a framework of 20 contemporary urban religious studies. Central here is the understanding that pi- 21 ous Muslims are one among other (new and old) urban religious groups that vie 22 for adequate spaces, respect, recognition, and participation in European cities in 23 the early twenty-fi rst century. 24 25 26 Migration, Culture, and Religion 27 28 Muslims have lived in Germany in small numbers for more than a century. King 29 Friedrich Wilhelm I established the fi rst documented Muslim prayer room almost 30 200 years ago in 1731 for Turkish soldiers in his troops (Ceylan 2006: 123). Th e 31 fi rst formal mosque was constructed and opened in Berlin in 1925 (Abdullah 32 1981: 29). In the 1950s increasing numbers of students from the Arab World, Iran, 33 and Africa came to study at German universities. Many of them were Muslims. 34 Plans for the fi rst post–World War II mosque in Germany, the Islamic Center in 35 Hamburg (Imam Ali Mosque, a predominantly Iranian Shi’a mosque), date back 36 to this era. Th e cornerstone for this mosque (with a dome and two minarets) was 37 laid in February 1961. Th e fi rst prayers were held in 1963 (Kraft 2002: 91). 38 Starting from the mid-1950s Germany signed labor treaties with southern Eu- 39 ropean and northern African states (e.g. Italy, Spain, Greece, Turkey, Morocco, 40 Tunisia, and Yugoslavia). With the signing of a treaty between Germany and Tur- 41 key in 1961, thousands of Turkish men and some women arrived. Planning to stay 42 for only a few years, most men left their wives and children back home. In the

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following years Moroccan, Tunisian, and Yugoslavian Muslims signed labor con- 1 tracts in Germany.4 By the mid-/late 1960s as some workers had already been in 2 Germany for a few years and their initial dreams of a speedy return were increas- 3 ingly put on hold, small groups of man organized themselves to accommodate 4 their religious needs. Talking to older individuals, these “founding” stories were 5 oft en surprisingly similar. Planning for a short stay, these informal groups rented 6 premises that were fi rst and foremost aff ordable and within the geographical reach 7 of many men. Initially, the quality of facilities, their public visibility, or access to 8 a larger public were of little concern to these groups (Schmitt 2003: 18; Ceylan 9 2006: 130).5 Th ey invariably ended up in backyards, defunct workshops, or the at- 10 tics of workers’ dormitories—out of sight of mainstream society (Schiff auer 2010: 11 36). In places that came to be referred to as Hinterhofmoschee (backyard mosque), 12 men met for daily, Friday, and holiday prayers (Mandel 1996). Internal political 13 or religious diff erences remained secondary in these small communities. Not very 14 much in touch with their larger urban and social environments, the men were 15 concerned with practicing their faith quietly and not attracting much attention 16 (Schmitt 2003: 18; Kraft 2002). Interaction with dominant society, and political 17 or social participation were not on their agenda (Ceylan 2006: 126; Jonker 2002: 18 119; Schiff auer 2000: 246). Regardless of their attempts at keeping a low profi le, 19 occasional smaller controversies emerged in some early prayer rooms. Neighbors 20 were prone to complain about noise and traffi c that resulted from tens of men 21 coming for Friday or holiday prayers. “Th e neighbors complained and then we 22 moved,” is almost a standard element of narratives about early mosques. But ten- 23 sions remained local and limited to particular facilities. In the political climate of 24 the 1960s and early 1970s, a few “guestworkers” performing their prayers were 25 seen as politically irrelevant, if they were noticed at all by dominant society. Many 26 Muslim migrant workers had no contact with these religious spaces, as some men 27 organized along ethnic or also political lines (e.g. in labor unions). 28 From the 1960s to the 1980s German authorities largely neglected the social, 29 cultural, and religious aff airs of migrants. Th e government relegated such ques- 30 tions to other institutions. For example, the Catholic Church provided services for 31 Catholic migrants (e.g. from Italy, Spain, or Portugal). Many Italians joined local 32 Catholic churches, which if there were suffi cient numbers, would off er additional 33 Italian language services.6 In 1960, the Protestant Church in Baden-Württemberg 34 entered an agreement with the Greek Orthodox Church to provide support for 35 Greek migrants (Diakonie Württemberg 25.2.2010). Local chapters of the secu- 36 lar and left ist AWO (Arbeiterwohlfahrt; Workers’ Welfare) provided some social 37 services for Turkish workers in the 1960s. A religious vacuum remained for pious 38 Turks, hence their informal religious associations. 39 Th e recruitment stop for foreign labor in 1973 dramatically remade the lifes- 40 capes of many migrants. Afraid that re-entry would be denied aft er summer vaca- 41 tions in their home countries, and still far from their ambitious goals of saving 42

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1 large sums of money, many workers decided to bring their families to Germany. 2 Some Turkish, Moroccan, or Yugoslavian/Bosnian men had already spent a de- 3 cade in Germany; and with the growing number of women and children, demands 4 on religious spaces and services transformed. Whereas small, simple, and largely 5 non-descript prayer spaces had been suffi cient in the men’s fi rst decade in Ger- 6 many, more was needed now. Ergun Can,7 a member of the Stuttgart city council 7 (Gemeinderat) and keen observer of the local mosque-scape argues that this early 8 period indeed constituted a missed chance where authorities could have facilitated 9 the construction of a larger mosque, which would have possibly avoided some of 10 the subsequent segmentation into numerous smaller communities, and the spa- 11 tially hidden nature of many mosques.8 12 In the 1970s many Muslim communities started to consolidate into larger and 13 more organized congregations, which became increasingly diff erentiated in their 14 theological outlook and also political loyalties. Among them were the communi- 15 ties that later organized as the VIKZ (Verband der Islamischer Kulturzentren; As- 16 sociation of Islamic Cultural Centers), and the Nurçuluk communities (Schiff auer 17 2000: 51; Jonker 2002: 91). Both were more mystically and spiritually inclined and 18 at the time were illegal in Turkey (Schiff auer 2000: 52). In Stuttgart, the fi rst such 19 community, the predecessor of today’s local VIKZ chapter, was founded in 1968. 20 Th e outlines and organizational structure of what later became the Milli Görüş 21 communities also emerged in the late 1960s (Schiff auer 2010: 63). Th ese early pro- 22 cesses of religious community formations in Germany irritated secular authorities 23 in Ankara that controlled religious matters in Turkey. In 1984 the “Turkish-Islamic 24 Union of the Presidency for Religions” (Türkisch-Islamische Union der Anstalt für 25 Religion e.V; Turkish: Diyanet İşleri Türk İslam Birliği; short: DİTİB) was founded 26 in Germany as a local extension of the Turkish Presidency for Religious Aff airs, 27 a government body under the direct control of the Prime Minister. Motivated by 28 concerns about the spiritual lives of Turkish migrants, but also alarmed by the 29 growing number of mosques and mosque associations in Europe that represented 30 groups that were either illegal or watched with suspicion by the Turkish govern- 31 ment, the German branch of DİTİB was to provide religious and cultural sup- 32 port, services, and guidance for Turks. Simultaneously DİTİB and its sponsoring 33 agency in Ankara hoped to maintain a vague control over Turkish Muslim aff airs 34 in Germany. Th e existence of DİTİB absolved German authorities of the need to 35 refl ect about the spiritual needs of Turkish Muslims. DİTİB started to organize 36 local mosque communities and the Turkish state sent and paid their Imams. More 37 recently many mosques also include female theologians or teachers of religion 38 sponsored by the Turkish state. Turkish consulates and DİTİB subsidiaries became 39 informal representatives and partners of German public institutions and political 40 bodies. At present DİTİB oversees almost 900 mosques in Germany.9 41 Based on the religio-political movement headed by Necmettin Erbakan (who 42 was the Turkish Prime Minister in 1996/97; Schiff auer 2000, 2010), the Islamic

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Community Milli Görüş (Islamische Gemeinschaft Milli Görüş; IGMIG) represents 1 what could vaguely be termed Turkish nationalist Islam. Set on a political march 2 through the institutions, Milli Görüş favors a strict interpretation of the Qur’an 3 and a parliamentarian type of Islamic politics. Th e fi rst communities vaguely based 4 on Erbakan’s ideas were founded in the mid-1970s in Germany (some used this 5 initial name of Turkish Islamic Union). Aft er a series of organizational and name 6 changes, the community confi gured under the national umbrella organization of 7 Islamische Gemeinschaft Milli Görüş in 1995.10 Popularly known as Milli Görüş, 8 this IGMG is viewed with suspicion by German authorities. Th e association is on 9 the watch-list of state security (Schiff auer 2010). Th erefore, the association and 10 its individual mosques are oft en overlooked or outright boycotted with regard to 11 inclusion in civic circuits and public events. 12 Consolidating Turkish mosque communities and emerging national umbrella 13 associations increasingly came to refl ect the outlines and controversies of Turkey’s 14 political and religious landscape (Tietze 2001: 36; Ceylan 2006: 139; Schiff auer 15 2000). Some older Turkish individuals related stories of veritable political “take- 16 overs” or minor “mosque-wars” in this period of political and religious articula- 17 tion (e.g. Ceylan 2006: 140; Schiff auer 2000, 2010).11 18 Arab, Bosnian, or later Afghan and other mosques similarly represent articula- 19 tions of local, home country, and global dynamics. Th ese developments unfolded 20 quietly and never produced much public attention and debate. Th e largest pre- 21 dominantly Arab mosque association is the Islamische Gemeinschaft in Deutsch- 22 land IGD (Islamic Community in Deutschland), which is part of the Zentralrat 23 der Muslime (ZDM, Central Council of Muslims). Founded in Munich in 1958, 24 the IGD is among the oldest German Muslim associations.12 Loosely framed by as- 25 pects of the teaching of the Egyptian Muslim Brotherhood, the IGD is less invested 26 in the national politics of any Arab country, and more focused on the construction 27 of a German Islam, German Muslim platforms, the teaching of their theology and 28 practices, and the construction of individual pious identities in the context of the 29 global ummah. More than other associations the IGD attracts converts to Islam. 30 Under the umbrella of national organizations, local communities started to 31 search for larger and more appropriate facilities (see Schmitt 2003: 18). Th ey also 32 recognized the material needs of their members and visitors with regard to ethnic 33 and religious merchandise, such as halal food products (Ceylan 2006: 137; Haenni 34 2005; Mandel 1996: 151; Fischer 2009). Some new and larger mosque complexes 35 started to include grocery stores and other businesses (e.g. barber stores, travel 36 agents, undertakers). Becoming more settled and institutionalized, allowed com- 37 munities a minimum of public recognition. Some gradually presented themselves 38 as partners for municipal authorities and other civic associations (Tietze 2001: 39 36).13 Becoming more established and locally rooted, growing in size, claiming a 40 voice in public, and searching for better and possibly more visible spaces, mosque 41 communities faced new problems. In their early years, mosque associations, as 42

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1 disenfranchised groups that largely consisted of (invisible) immigrants had pro- 2 duced few reactions from dominant society. Th eir attempts, however, to rent, and 3 starting from the 1990s, buy larger premises were oft en met with opposition, prej- 4 udices, and rejection. At the same time the cast of players was changing in many 5 mosque associations. Increasingly the leadership of mosque associations included 6 members of the second generation with professional training or university degrees 7 who were no longer willing to gratefully take handouts from dominant society. 8 Instead, as educated and vocal citizens they were socially and legally savvy and 9 claimed their legitimate right to acquire appropriate spaces to worship and ad- 10 equate spaces from which to join and interact with the urban public. 11 Th ese changes refl ect larger European developments as many younger Muslims 12 turned away from their parents’ countries of origin toward participation in the 13 societies where they had lived all or most of their lives (Ceylan 2006: 147, 2010; 14 Schiff auer 2010). New political and religious issues emerged, like the shape and 15 future of Muslim minority communities and the role of religious individuals and 16 communities in civil society, culture, and politics (Nökel 2002: 160; Jonker and 17 Amiraux 2006). Th is coincided with the emergence of a new cultural and intel- 18 lectual pious Muslim elite and their increasing visibility (Göle 2004: 11; Klausen 19 2005; Schiff auer 2010; Kandemir 2005), and a new Muslim “public sphere and 20 market” (Göle 2004: 13, Haenni 2005; Pink 2009; Kuppinger 2011a). Regardless of 21 discrimination, disrespect, and ignorance about their existence and constructive 22 participation in the last half century, pious Muslims made a home for themselves 23 in German and European cities (Al-Hamarneh and Th ielmann 2008; Nökel 2002; 24 Mannitz 2006; Tietze 2001; Bowen 2007; Werbner 2002). 25 26 27 Belonging, Citizenship, and Identity 28 29 Discussions about belonging and citizenship in Germany are rooted in the nine- 30 teenth century when larger groups of labor migrants arrived in particular from 31 Poland to work in newly established mines and factories, or in railroad or urban 32 construction in the emerging German nation-state (Sassen 1999: 55). At a histori- 33 cal moment when hundreds of thousands of Germans left for the Americas, inter- 34 nal migration and increasingly migration from outside the consolidating borders 35 of the new nation-state gained in importance. Th e new nation-state quickly drew 36 a line between its nationals and incoming laborers, who were labeled as tempo- 37 rary (ibid.). Saskia Sassen explains that “long before any Turkish workers appeared 38 on the German scene, these East European masses were treated as the nation’s 39 ‘guest workers’” (ibid.: 57). Th e movement and settlement of incoming workers 40 was closely controlled by residence and work permits (ibid.). Th e treatment of this 41 fi rst wave of im-/migrants refl ects the conceptualization of the nation as a fi xed 42 community of “insiders” who share “a common ‘blood,’ as though a nation were a

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biological inheritance rather than a cultural acquisition” (ibid.: 61). Jus sanguinis 1 became a basic tenet of German citizenship law, and very importantly also of po- 2 litical discourses and popular sentiments about migrant workers and immigrants. 3 Th e myth of common descent became deeply engrained, or naturalized into the 4 understanding of Germanness. Consequently, it was easier for the children of past 5 emigrants to regain German citizenship, than for long-term immigrants to receive 6 citizenship. For much of the twentieth century, the notion of the German nation as 7 a neatly circumscribed community of descent remained unchallenged in the po- 8 litical realm and popular imagination. Even aft er millions of migrant workers and 9 their families had arrived starting in the 1950s, few observers asked for changes 10 in citizenship laws until the 1990s. Even individuals who became German citi- 11 zens were frequently reminded that they simply were not “as German” as ethnic 12 Germans. Until recently, most politicians denied the reality of Germany being an 13 immigrant nation. Rauf Ceylan noted, that Germany for too long has been an im- 14 migrant nation without an immigration policy (2006: 93). 15 In the 1990s, in particular with the arrival of waves of war refugees and po- 16 litical asylum seekers, debates about the unwieldy and discriminatory German 17 citizenship laws became more pressing. In 2000 (under a Social Democrat and 18 Green coalition), citizenship laws were reformed to ease the way into citizenship 19 for long-term residents and their children (Ewing 2008: 16). Inserting aspects of 20 jus solis legislation, the reformed law stipulates that children who have at least one 21 (non-citizen) parent, who had lived for more than eight years legally in Germany, 22 could automatically get German citizenship at birth. While much remains to be 23 done with regard to allowing easier access to citizenship, fi rst signifi cant steps were 24 taken with this law. 25 Th e adaption of legal contexts to existing realities, however, neither produces 26 widespread knowledge of these changes, nor does it result in the automatic recon- 27 sideration of popular ideas about citizenship and belonging. For conservative poli- 28 ticians (who had opposed this legislation) and considerable segments of dominant 29 society, this law did not alter their assumptions about the nature of the nation, 30 its “legitimate” members, and the high stakes for those who wanted to join. Ger- 31 many in this widespread understanding continued to be a nation of ethnic Ger- 32 mans. Th ose who wanted to become citizens would have to become “Germans” as 33 defi ned by rather narrow characteristics. Citizenship in the popular imagination 34 remained closely linked to an adherence of rather ill-defi ned notions of German 35 culture. 36 On October 18, 2000, Friedrich Merz of the conservative Christian Demo- 37 cratic Union (CDU) announced in an interview that “immigrants who [want] 38 to live here permanently must adapt to the evolved German Leitkultur” (quoted 39 in Ewing 2008b: 212). His utterance and the concept of Leitkultur (guiding cul- 40 ture, main/dominant culture) sparked considerable debate. What was Germany’s 41 Leitkultur? Who defi ned the tenets of this culture? On the political left , Merz’s 42

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1 statement produced surprise, which quickly turned into mockery and ridicule. 2 Left ist commentators, blogs, and cyberspace debates were fl ooded with lists and 3 images of this Leitkultur as a collage of beer, Sauerkraut, Wurst (sausages), soccer, 4 Neuschwanstein, Goethe, and Beethoven. Th e term quickly deteriorated into the 5 butt of jokes and was largely avoided in broader debates. An eager CDU bureaucrat 6 in Baden-Württemberg, however, took the task of creating Leitkultur-tested new 7 citizens to heart and designed a test to verify that those who applied for citizenship 8 were indeed infused with the spirit of German culture. In 2006 this test was imple- 9 mented in Baden-Württemberg.14 Other federal states have since instituted similar 10 tests. Th ese tests have been criticized for their discriminatory contents such as 11 questions that confl ict with some pious Muslim sensitivities. 12 In the face of the more self-conscious and outspoken presence of young and 13 educated German Muslims and debates about Islam in the wake of 9/11, many oth- 14 erwise secular individuals increasingly insisted that Germany was a Christian na- 15 tion and as such part of a larger Christian-Jewish-European cultural context and 16 civilization. Th e presence of large numbers of Muslims not only intensifi ed debates 17 about citizenship and cultural belonging but also kindled debates about the role of 18 religion in the secular state. Ensuing discussions incited considerable fears of Islam 19 and Muslims, which produced further resentment with regard to legal inclusion and 20 participation of Muslims (see e.g. Ammann 2004: 66; Modood 2007: 128). 21 22 23 From Gastarbeiter to Migrant to Muslim 24 25 When Southern European and North African workers fi rst arrived in the 1950s 26 and 1960s, their stay was deemed temporary and they were subsequently called 27 Gastarbeiter (guest worker), a designation that stresses the temporal limits of their 28 stay and their distinct outsider position. Guests do not belong and should not 29 overstay their welcome.15 Th e term guest implies the clear lack of rights to interfere 30 with the lives of hosts, demand major cultural accommodations, become active 31 participants in society, or creatively shape local culture (Yeğenoğlu 2012; Derrida 32 1992). Once the myth of the temporary stay of migrant workers was debunked (at 33 least for those with a willingness to recognize and understand political realities), 34 and the sons and daughters of the fi rst generation became more outspoken and 35 increasingly demanded their rights of inclusion and creative participation in soci- 36 ety, the term Gastarbeiter was reluctantly replaced by Ausländer (foreigner, oft en 37 used in a derogatory way) in general, or Turks, Italians, and Greeks in particular 38 starting in the mid to late 1970s. Once more this set of terms drew clear lines of 39 exclusion. Foreigners might live in Germany, but they did not belong and could 40 not claim the same right as citizens. Simultaneously, a silent social contract existed 41 that gave migrant workers and their families full access to health insurance, retire- 42 ment, schooling, and other social benefi ts, at the price of not asking for political

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rights and relevant civic participation. In this earlier phase in the construction of a 1 multi-ethnic society, religion took a backseat. Individuals and groups were largely 2 identifi ed by their nationalities. Th ey were Turks, Italian, Portuguese, Moroccans, 3 or Yugoslavians, and as such, separate from and outside of the German nation. 4 Starting in the 1990s growing numbers of immigrants, among them many 5 Turks, started acquiring German citizenship which triggered yet another relabel- 6 ing of groups of immigrants and increasingly also citizens. Th e term ausländische 7 Mitbürger (foreign co-residents or co-citizens) made an appearance. Faced with a 8 wave of immigrants from eastern European countries and war refugees from the 9 former Yugoslavia, Iraq, and Afghanistan labeling became increasingly diffi cult. 10 Understanding national and especially immigration aff airs progressively more in 11 larger European terms (the Schengen Agreement went into eff ect in 1995), ter- 12 minologies across Europe also became increasingly similar. In the late 1990s the 13 term migrant (and increasingly also immigrant) came to describe the vastly di- 14 verse population of non-ethnic German residents. Th e constant German quest or 15 obsession to defi ne, label, and re-label the latter groups signifi es a concern with 16 maintaining clear boundaries between “us” and “them.” Labels betray the sense 17 that “outsiders” become ever closer to be “insiders,” a circumstance that many 18 politicians and ethnic German deeply resented. Th ese labels and the boundaries 19 drawn by them illustrate irrational fears of outsiders becoming equals in the na- 20 tion-state. Hence ever-changing labels fi rst and foremost served to maintain lines 21 of diff erence and exclusion. Th e third or even fourth generation of descendants of 22 the Gastarbeiter continued to be labeled as outsiders in ever more hair-splitting 23 and oft en demeaning ways. 24 Th e change of German citizenship law in 2000 made it much easier for long- 25 term residents to acquire German citizenship, and for the fi rst time allowed chil- 26 dren born in Germany to automatically receive a German passport. Th is fi rst 27 shift away from an almost exclusively jus sanguinis (descent/blood-based law) 28 to a mixed form of jus soli (born in the country) and jus sanguinis citizenship 29 further complicated the position and terminology with regard to the new Ger- 30 man citizens. Instead of simply referring to naturalized citizens as Germans or 31 German-Turks or Greek-Germans, more terms were invented to signify the fi ne- 32 tuned exclusion of what were now national citizens. Th e label of individuals mit 33 Migrationshintergrund (with a background of migration or migratory roots) was 34 invented to refer in particular to the younger generations of naturalized citizens, 35 but also those of mixed parentage. An individual mit Migrationshintergrund is a 36 person who either was not born in Germany, or has at least one parent that was not 37 born in Germany.16 In 2012, about 20 percent of the country’s population (about 38 16.3 million out of 81.9 million) was identifi ed as having migratory roots (Statist- 39 isches Bundesamt 2013: 7). 40 In the wake of the twenty-fi rst century ongoing processes of exclusionary labeling 41 coincided with a dramatic wave of Islamophobia aft er 9/11. A dramatically diverse 42

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1 population of migrants, refugees, and (long) naturalized citizens who were from 2 Muslim majority countries were rapidly re-labeled once more: this time as “Mus- 3 lims.” (Peter 2010: 127). At the same time the citizenship law of 2000 and ongoing 4 processes of naturalization were producing ever larger numbers of German Muslims, 5 a circumstance that struck segments of the dominant population as problematic. 6 Religion, which in the 1970s and 1980s had played a negligible role in debates 7 about migration, suddenly moved to the forefront of public and political debates. 8 Italians, Portuguese, Serbians, or Croatians largely remained “migrants” and their 9 religions secondary. Turks, Moroccans, Egyptians, or Bosnians, in contrast, were 10 increasingly and indiscriminately labeled as Muslims. Th e label “Muslim” came 11 with resentment, fear, suspicion, and the assumption that Muslims were inher- 12 ently diff erent; and oft en unwilling to become loyal citizens in a liberal democracy. 13 Th e term furthermore drew yet another line between (“real”) Germans and Mus- 14 lim Germans. Th e emergence of “Muslims” as a constituency and simultaneously 15 as a “problem” is a national and European phenomenon. 16 17 18 Religion, Religiosity, and Ethnicity 19 20 Muslims practice their religion and traditions in a multitude of ways from a very 21 committed religiosity to atheism. For some, every letter of the religion must be 22 respected, while others do not care at all. Some practice their religion because their 23 families have always practiced. Others practice by their own personal decision, 24 and seek to learn more about Islam and become more pious. Yet others were born 25 Muslims and do not practice on a daily basis, but celebrate Muslim holidays. For 26 some being Muslim is a cultural aspect of their lives, for others it is a political com- 27 mitment. Th ere are no dividing lines between these diverse individuals. Regard- 28 less of this vast specter of possibilities and blurred lines, there are individuals and 29 groups who, in particular in the last two decades, have increasingly adopted Islam, 30 Muslim theology and practice as defi ning elements of their lives, and very impor- 31 tantly also their public identities and engagements (Deeb 2006; Ismail 2006; Ke- 32 aton 2006; Bullock 2005; Werbner 2002; Tarlo 2010; Backer 2009; Kandemir 2005; 33 Wilson 2010). Political adversity toward all things Muslim has led some individu- 34 als to re-/claim Muslim cultural and religious identities (Modood 2007: 134). 35 In addition to diverse religiosities, concrete lifeworlds unfold on the back- 36 ground of specifi c ethno-cultural traditions which are in constant fl ux (Werbner 37 2002; Nökel 2002; Gerlach 2006). To be a Turkish Muslim in an Anatolian village 38 in the 1960s diff ered from being the grandchild of that person in Germany in the 39 twenty-fi rst century (Schiff auer 1987, 1991, 1992, 2000). Th ese lifeworlds, in turn, 40 diff er from those of war refugees from Afghanistan, Bosnia, Iraq, or Syria. Each 41 individual or group is involved in cultural, religious, and social negotiations and 42 transformations as they encounter concrete lifeworlds and situations. Living in a

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society which views Muslims with suspicion, even the most secular and atheist 1 Muslims who might care little about Islam, its teachings and practices are routine- 2 ly reminded of their (ill-defi ned) Muslim identity. Th e category “Muslim” sticks to 3 individuals and they have to maneuver its assigned characteristics.17 Being Muslim 4 in Germany is a complex position, where assigned, inherited, and chosen elements 5 of identity and religiosity interact in intricate manners (Brubaker 2012). 6 Dominant German media and political discourses have little understanding of 7 Muslim diversity and the complexity of Muslim identities and religiosities. One 8 frequently reads reports about der Islam (“the” Islam)18 and die Muslime (“the” 9 Muslims). Der Islam is oft en depicted as a stagnant religion, that tends to foster 10 violence and war (the little understood concept of jihad is said to be central here), 11 that oppresses women, and resists change and modernization.19 Die Muslime are 12 said to oft en be unwilling to integrate into German society (integrationsunwillig), 13 occasionally practice forced marriage (Zwangsheirat), sometimes they are even 14 suspects to terrorism. Some Muslims are said to conspire to Islamize Germany and 15 set up an Islamic state based on the sharia (Muslim law/legal system).20 Such sim- 16 plistic representations and arguments create images of Muslims as a surprisingly 17 coherent or monolithic group that blindly and lock-step follows Islam—however 18 defi ned—and is thus hard to “integrate” into liberal German society. Th ese im- 19 ages suggest that Muslim lives are narrowly circumscribed by religious laws and 20 customs and leave little room for individual religiosities, religious transformation, 21 and cultural creativity. Some pundits insist that Muslims withdraw into isolated 22 and socially disconnected Parallelgesellschaft en (parallel societies). Nothing could 23 be further from the reality of ordinary Muslims’ lives. In fact, in German cities 24 there are no ethnic or religious ghettos where one ethnicity or religion dominates 25 all else. Th ere are multi-ethnic quarters like Nordbahnhof in Stuttgart, Hochfeld 26 in Duisburg (Ceylan 2006), Wilhelmsburg in Hamburg (Tietze 2001), or most 27 famously Kreuzberg and Neukölln in Berlin (Mandel 2008; Ewing 2008b; Kaya 28 2001),21 which in the popular imagination might be the homes of Muslim “paral- 29 lel societies,” but in reality are multi-ethnic quarters that include ethnic German 30 and diverse other residents. In Stuttgart, quarters like Hallschlag, Nordbahnhof, 31 Zuff enhausen, or Bad Cannstatt are sometimes referred to as problematic. What 32 sets these quarters apart from others is their larger percentage of migrant popula- 33 tions (51.3 and 49.1 percent for the latter two quarters; Landeshauptstadt Stuttgart 34 2013: 300; 96),22 their working-class histories (less so for Bad Cannstatt), and their 35 relatively larger number of families with children, lower average household in- 36 comes, and higher rate of recipients of social welfare (ibid.). None of these quarters 37 are self-contained or disconnected from the other quarters and urban circuits. 38 Contrary to such simplistic images, Islam, Muslims, and Muslim practices and 39 religiosities constitute a religious and cultural fi eld that is part of a larger discursive 40 tradition (T. Asad 1986) where individuals, formal, and informal groups inter-/act 41 on many stages. In daily encounters, these participants formulate the outlines of 42

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1 a Muslim public sphere, which overlaps and is linked with other spheres, such as 2 ethnically based ones (e.g. Turkish, Arab, or Bosnian), those based on shared his- 3 tories of migration (cross-ethnic associations), and those based on non-religious 4 and non-ethnic issues (e.g. sports, unions, professional associations). People of 5 diverse backgrounds interact in these fi elds in planned and unplanned, conscious 6 and unconscious, harmonious and confrontational ways. In minute encounters, 7 ordinary people confi gure identities and practices; they voice content or discon- 8 tent, argue and formulate compromises. 9 Th e boundaries of religiously inspired civic participation and cultural produc- 10 tion are blurred. When does an encounter include religion? Do Muslims exclusively 11 interact as Muslims? When does Islam become a factor in a situation or interac- 12 tion? Certainly, there are central actors (Imams, mosque association members, ac- 13 tive mosque goers) and spaces (mosques), but there are many others who are much 14 harder to categorize. Pious individuals are also citizens, workers, students, house- 15 wives, parents, and neighbors and they spend more time in these capacities than in 16 their houses of worship and religious centers. Obviously, not all Muslims are mosque 17 goers. Some never set foot in mosques. Th ere are those who are pious, but practice 18 their faith at home. And there are those who are neither pious nor attend mosques, 19 and prefer spaces of popular entertainments like soccer fi elds and bars. Anybody 20 who claims to be a Muslim, or claims to have been born Muslim vaguely falls into 21 this fi eld of interaction. Non-Muslims play a role as interlocutors of Muslims. When 22 Muslims bring gift s of food to non-Muslim neighbors for holidays, and receive gift s 23 in return for Christian feasts, this is an important interaction that aff ects both par- 24 ties. When a non-Muslim woman complains that she feels embarrassed about sitting 25 on her balcony in her bikini in the summer, as the Muslim neighbor whose wife 26 wears a headscarf, or even the wife herself, might peek over, then this encounter 27 is similarly situated in the larger urban cultural fi eld of Islam, as Muslim notions 28 (modesty) and practices (to cover the female body) are at stake. 29 Understanding that the fi eld of Islam, Muslims, and Muslim cultures and reli- 30 giosities is a vast one with blurred boundaries, I will in the following largely limit 31 my analysis to individuals and groups who take religion and religiosities as central 32 features of their lives. My interest more specifi cally is in the creation and negotia- 33 tion of urban religious lives, spaces, interactions, and identities. My goal is not to 34 chronicle the “integration” of Muslims, but the confi guration of urban Islam and 35 Muslim lives as part of a larger geography of urban religions and religiosities. 36 37 38 Urban Religions 39 40 Th e study of urban religions, urban religious cultures, immigrant religions, the 41 role of religiosity in the lives of ordinary urban dwellers, and the overall role of 42 religion in cities, has gained momentum since the turn of the twenty-fi rst century.

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Based on earlier work, oft en conducted by scholars of religion and cultural geog- 1 raphers, a growing number of scholars of a variety of disciplinary backgrounds 2 have in the last decade taken a keen interest in religion, and the contribution of 3 faith-based organizations to urban cultures and transformations. 4 Robert Orsi (1985, 1999, 2005), a historian of religion, insists on the signifi - 5 cance of religion, religiosity, and religious practices for many ordinary urbanites, 6 and identifi es the role of religion as a critical element in urban processes. Orsi’s 7 Th e Madonna of 115th Street (1985) inserts religion into debates of urban cultures. 8 Similarly, the contributors to Gods of the City (Orsi 1999; among them two urban 9 anthropologists, Brown 1999; Kugelmass 1999) assert that religion is not only in, 10 but very crucially of the city. Orsi points the importance of religion beyond houses 11 of worship noting that urban religion “do not exist in a sacred space apart, but 12 in the midst of social life” (1999a: 57). Lily Kong, an urban geographer, has been 13 instrumental in “mapping new geographies of religion” pointing to the role of re- 14 ligion in contemporary cities (2001; see also 1990, 2010). She argues that religion, 15 religiosities, and religious practices are dynamic components in the negotiation of 16 urban lives and spaces (Kong 1993). 17 More recently, a number of anthropologists have studied the role on Islam 18 in urban transformations in contemporary Muslim-majority cities (Deeb 2006; 19 Deeb and Harb 2013; White 2002; BouAkar 2012; Henkel 2007; Fawaz 2009; 20 Harb and Deeb 2011, 2013). Others analyze Muslim religiosities and everyday 21 religious practices and their spatial impact on cities (Desplat and Schulz 2012), 22 paying attention to social tension and confl ict (Keaton 2006; Asher 2012; Zöller 23 2012). Some examine the role of Muslim communities in recent transformations 24 in European cities (Ghodsee 2010; Ceylan 2006; Mattausch and Yildiz 2009). 25 In Europe announcements to construct a mosque have frequently caused con- 26 troversies about the role of Islam in cities and Europe at large (Cesari 2005; 27 McLoughlin 2005; Astor 2012; Hüttermann 2006; Lauterbach and Lottermoser 28 2009). Such controversies oft en initiate broader debates about Islam and religion 29 in secular cities (Beaumont and Baker 2011; Molendijk et al. 2010; Wilford 2010; 30 Olson et al. 2013). 31 Debates about the position of Islam have in recent years dominated popular 32 and scholarly debates about religion in many European cities. Less has been said 33 and written about other (immigrant) religious communities. In order to analyze 34 the inclusion of Muslims into German cityscapes, it is helpful to take a broader 35 analytical look at urban religious transformations. In the process of large-scale 36 immigration, German cities have experienced considerable religious transforma- 37 tions that are largely neglected and have not been suffi ciently analyzed. If urban 38 religions are discussed in the case of Germany, the debates focus on the declining 39 membership of traditional Christian churches (Lutheran-Protestant and Catholic) 40 and the rise of Islam. Little attention is paid to the broader transformations of 41 the urban religious topography that include the arrival and localization of other 42

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1 religions, like Hinduism, the recent growth in Jewish communities (immigrants 2 from the former Soviet Union), and the rapidly growing numbers of Orthodox 3 and other Christian churches (Costabel 2009). 4 Since the turn of the twenty-fi rst century, a growing number of scholars have 5 explored immigrant religious associations in Europe and North America (Ba- 6 dillo 2006; Foley and Hodge 2007; Jeung 2004; Cesari 2010; Bowen 2010). Th ey 7 asked questions about the role of religion in (secular) cities (Stepick et al. 2009; 8 ter Haar 1998; Livezey 2000; Tweed 2002), refl ected about the neglected role of 9 space in the study of religion (Knott 2005; Tweed 2008), and analyzed place- 10 making aspects of religious practices (Smith 1987). Drawing on theoretical de- 11 bates about the history, defi nition, and validity of the concept of the secular (T. 12 Asad 1993, 2003; Calhoun et al. 2011; Habermas 2006; Casanova 1994; Butler et 13 al. 2011), and discussions about the role of religion in urban processes (Cloke 14 and Beaumont 2010; Kong 2001; Hervieu-Léger 2002), researchers examine 15 faith-based associations and their impact on urban spatialities and transforma- 16 tions. Examining especially the expanding landscapes of immigrant faith-based 17 organizations, some voice doubts about the (imagined) secular nature of US and 18 European cities. However, to speak of post-secular cities and spaces, does not 19 imply “an epochal shift from a secular age . . . to a postsecular age” (Cloke and 20 Beaumont 2012:3; emphasis in the original), but “might usefully be understood 21 as marking some limitations of the secularization thesis” (ibid.). Th e growing 22 number of faith-based organizations (including soup kitchens or food banks) 23 represents broader negotiations of post-secular cityscapes. Faith-based associa- 24 tions and their religiously inspired place-making and participation (e.g. Levitt 25 2008) need to be examined in the broader framework of the “encroachment” of 26 the religious onto dominant (oft en incompletely) secularly defi ned European 27 cityscapes (Butler et al. 2011). Th is is not a new phenomenon, but represents the 28 renewed and more self-conscious acts of religiously inspired actors and faith- 29 based institutions which have always existed in western cities, but have gained 30 new prominence in the face of large scale immigration. Comparing the experi- 31 ences of diff erent immigrant religious communities (e.g. Shah et al. 2012; Peach 32 and Gale 2003) it becomes quickly apparent that some problems that Muslim 33 communities face (especially with regard to mosque constructions) are not 34 unique but are shared with other new urban religions. 35 Taking evidence and inspiration from vibrant debates in the fi eld of the study 36 of urban religion, I seek to reposition the study of Islam and Muslim in Stuttgart 37 in these debates. Instead of focusing on Islam as the singular “foreign” religion 38 that impinges of an otherwise religiously well settled cityscape, I understand pious 39 Muslims as one group of believers that confi gure a place and home for themselves 40 of dynamic urban religious topography where many diff erent groups and congre- 41 gations work to defi ne their spaces, practices, and forms of participation. 42

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Urban Culture and Small Spaces 1 2 In his otherwise pessimistic account about the “liquid times” of the early twenty- 3 fi rst century, Zygmunt Bauman identifi es cities and in particular neighborhoods and 4 small urban spaces as possible sites of hope and inspiration (2007: 79). Urban quar- 5 ters, and here especially, multi-ethnic working-class neighborhoods, which oft en 6 carry a heavy share of social problems, nonetheless are always communities “in the 7 making” (P.M. Smith quoted in Bauman 2007: 79). In neighborhood spaces, global 8 trends and dynamics are lived and negotiated by ordinary people in minute encoun- 9 ters. It is worth quoting Bauman’s understanding of such spaces at length: 10 11 It is around places that human experience tends to be formed and gleaned, 12 that life-sharing is attempted to be managed, that life meanings are conceived, 13 absorbed and negotiated. And it is in places that human urges and desires are 14 gestated and incubated, that they live in the hope of fulfi llment, run the risk of 15 frustration—and are indeed, more oft en than not, frustrated and strangled. 16 Contemporary cities are for that reason the stages or battlegrounds on which 17 global powers and stubbornly local meanings and identities meet, clash, struggle and seek a satisfactory, or just bearable, settlement—a mode of cohabitation that 18 is hoped to be a lasting peace but as a rule proves to be only an armistice; brief 19 interval to repair broken defences and redeploy fi ghting units (2007: 81, empha- 20 sis in the original). 21 22 In a world of global links and processes, the lives of most people remain sur- 23 prisingly local and indeed neighborhood and small urban spaces remain the most 24 feasible for individuals and groups to participate in and to possibly change. Bau- 25 man explains: “For most of us and for most of the time, local issues seem to be the 26 only ones we can “do something about”—infl uence, repair, improve, redirect. It is 27 only in local matters that our actions or inaction can be credited with “making a 28 diff erence,” since for the state of those other “superlocal” aff airs there is (or so we 29 are repeatedly told by our political leaders and all other “people in the know”) “no 30 alternative” (ibid.: 82; emphasis in the original). 31 Neighborhoods, where strangers share permanent and transient spaces (apart- 32 ment buildings, streets, stores, public transportation) harbor great potentials 33 for cultural negotiations and changes. Constant proximity and interaction with 34 neighbors and strangers is a “permanent modus vivendi” (Bauman 2007:86), 35 where participants constantly observe each other. Old and new forms and prac- 36 tices are “experimented with, tested and retested, and (hopefully) put into a shape 37 that will make cohabitation with strangers palatable and life in their company 38 livable” (ibid.). Arguing for urban spaces and processes that foster “mixophilia” 39 (versus “mixophobia”; ibid.), Bauman hopes for shared experiences and creative 40 encounters of diff erence. 41 42

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1 Resented Inclusion 2 3 Examining pious Muslim participation and citizenship, and the cultural creativity 4 of multicultural neighborhoods, it is paramount to recognize the reality of ev- 5 eryday discrimination, adversity and prejudices that Muslims oft en face.23 I am 6 acutely aware of the existence of xenophobia, racism, and Islamophobia in Ger- 7 many—on private, public, and institutional levels. Without exception, Muslims 8 (and other migrants) who I worked with had stories about negative, off ensive, and 9 hateful experiences. From being spat at, to rude remarks (“why do you people 10 have so many children?”), to insulting ignorance/curiosity (“why do you wear a 11 headscarf?”), to continued questions about their origins (“no, really what country 12 are you from?”), being a (visible) Muslim/a in the German public sphere can be 13 a daunting experience. Several individuals related particularly harsh experiences 14 when looking for apartments (“no headscarves in this building,” or “if your wife 15 wears a headscarf, you cannot move in here”). Several scholars have chronicled the 16 at times deeply humiliating and off ensive experiences of in particular Turkish im- 17 migrants (Ewing 2008a, 2008b; Mandel 2008; Partridge 2012). My intention is not 18 to add another account about discrimination and xenophobia in Germany. Instead 19 I examine creative, yet at times painful processes of inclusion, participation, and 20 cultural production. Examining inclusion and participation, necessarily illustrates 21 processes of exclusion. Turkish immigrants in particular, but pious Muslims at 22 large have oft en been targeted for their alleged unwillingness to integrate and par- 23 ticipate.24 Th ere is no blame for social ills that would not be piled onto Turks and 24 Muslims. Whether taking jobs away from native populations, abusing the welfare 25 system, fostering Islamic extremism, militancy, and fanaticism, to abusing and 26 locking up their wives and daughters, forcing their daughter to marry obscure 27 cousins, refusing to learn German, not supporting their children’s schoolwork, 28 raising sons prone to violence and crime, withdrawing into their parallel societies, 29 or practicing animal cruelty, Muslims are blamed for numerous social problems. 30 Despite this fl ood of blame, accusation, disrespect, resentment, suspicion, rejec- 31 tion, and discrimination, there are tens of thousands individuals who disregard 32 such sentiments and wholeheartedly plunge into work places, schools, universi- 33 ties, institutions, and the public sphere and participate in a plethora of activities 34 and debates. 35 Islam is a German religion and an integral part of complex cityscapes (Ceylan 36 2006; Schiff auer 2008; Mannitz 2006; Tietze 2001: 219). Th e central lens through 37 which to understand diverse Muslims is not “integration,” but participation and 38 citizenship (T. Ramadan 2003a, 2003b; Modood 2005). Th us my analysis proceeds 39 from the assumption that societies are dynamic fi elds where actors and concepts 40 are under constant negotiations (see Modood 2007: 146). Nations, national identi- 41 ties, and notions of good citizenship are fl exible and oft en most successful when 42 they are able to respond to social transformations and global challenges (ibid.).

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Citizenship is not written in stone as a priori characteristic of some individuals 1 (e.g. those who carry the national passport) but is up for grabs for all those who 2 share the fate of the community and wish to responsibly participate in the making 3 of a shared future. While passports play a role in the making of national politics, 4 on the level of local participation and debates, the actual dedication, involvement, 5 and participation in the locality, in this case the city, are more important. 6 Equal participation is based on recognition. With regard to Muslims this means 7 that diff erences that are oft en viewed with suspicion and fear need to be recognized 8 as legitimate and positive diff erence. Recognition would ideally turn negatively 9 perceived diff erence into positive diff erence that could be instrumentalized for the 10 benefi t of society (Modood 2007). Recognition can be manifold and might imply 11 diff erent aspects for diverse constituencies. For Muslims, this implies not only the 12 creation of yet another space that duplicates those created for other groups, but 13 also involves the rethinking of the concept of the secular (ibid.). Th is will not hap- 14 pen overnight. Instead “recognition . . . must be pragmatically and experimentally 15 handled, and civil society must share the burden of representation” (ibid.: 82). 16 Notions of citizenship need to include engagements with society that transcend 17 ownership of passports and voting in elections (Soysal 1994; Sassen 1999). Active 18 citizenship is the conscious sharing of the responsibility to maintain and improve 19 society (Modood 2005, 2007). Social or cultural citizenship (Sassen 1999: 123) is 20 lived in multiple relationships and civic participation. 21 Small transformations like the Imam’s presence in the New First-Graders cele- 22 bration need to be analyzed in their larger urban, national, and global framework. 23 Th ere are dominant and much-celebrated images of globalizing cities and their 24 high-tech and globally linked landscapes and super-productive upscale generic 25 modern citizens (Sassen 2001). Th ese cities are caught in an ever faster race for 26 global recognition and fi nancial investments. In order to become or remain a val- 27 ued location, cities have to invest in infrastructure and very importantly also in 28 cultural features. Th ey need to join the circus of national and global spectacles to 29 prove that they can live up to globalized standards of organization and represen- 30 tation. Cities spend millions to accommodate fi rst rate theaters, art shows, fi lm 31 or music festivals, and very importantly also global sports events. In addition to 32 fulfi lling this catalogue of cultural and fi nancial conditions, a “truly” globalized 33 city needs to fl aunt its cultural vibrancy, and the diversity of its citizenry. Th is 34 diversity is celebrated in politicians’ statements or municipal brochures. Interna- 35 tional cultural fairs, visiting artists and offi cial cultural exchanges are the pride 36 of municipalities and urban elites (Schuster 2006). Th ese oft en provide a sani- 37 tized and depoliticized version of diversity, in which the diffi cult reality of mul- 38 ticultural neighborhoods does not play a role (Modan 2007, 2008; Cahill 2007; 39 Newman 2011; Ingram 2009). Offi cial celebrations of cultures and diversity con- 40 trast the lived realities of neighborhoods like Nordbahnhof where every apart- 41 ment building, classroom, or line at the supermarket’s cash register is globalized 42

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1 or multicultural. Th us an Imam might easily fi t into a local (if not to say quaint) 2 celebration. Nobody would object to that. Indeed Nordbahnhof as a multi-ethnic 3 neighborhood might be a perfect location for such an event, but most observers 4 would not take this as a model for dominant society. Th e glittery globalized city 5 of international fairs and artists is heralded as the multicultural or global future, 6 whereas existing globalized neighborhoods or institutions like backyard mosques 7 are relegated to the (ironic) status of local and hence not worthy of being a model 8 for the (globalized) future. Places like Nordbahnhof are central sites in the making 9 of multi-ethnic twenty-fi rst-century German cities. An Imam at a public celebra- 10 tion is not a quaint expression of an irrelevant local quarter or a dangerous parallel 11 society, but a cultural detail that foreshadows tomorrow’s cityscape. Inclusion of 12 pious Muslims might be an increasingly normalized feature in small contexts and 13 localized platforms. Yet, they remain rare on larger political and cultural stages.25 14 15 16 (Muslim) Stuttgart 17 18 Th e city of Stuttgart is one of the wealthiest in Germany. Th e larger Stuttgart Met- 19 ropolitan Area, the so-called Mittlerer Neckarraum, counts among the wealthier 20 urban regions in Europe. With 600,000 residents Stuttgart is the sixth largest city 21 in Germany aft er Berlin (3.4 million), Hamburg (1.75 million), Munich (1.3 mil- 22 lion), Cologne (1 million), and Frankfurt (680,000). Stuttgart does not have the 23 concentration of political power and innovative cultural production like Berlin, 24 the fi nancial power and centrality of Frankfurt, or the powerful fashion and fi lm 25 industries like Munich, or an ocean port and a concentration of the press like 26 Hamburg, instead it is a high-tech, car, and banking city. In the early twenty-fi rst 27 century, Stuttgart—in the competition of German cities—scores by its global in- 28 dustries (most famously Mercedes, Porsche, and Bosch) and growing banking sec- 29 tor (second only to Frankfurt). Overall unemployment rates (5.8 percent, only 30 Munich’s rates is lower; Borgmann SZ 28.6.2008) are among the lowest in Germa- 31 ny and social programs and projects receive, not lavish, but good funding. While 32 Stuttgarters experiences considerable diff erences in wealth, income, and size and 33 quality of housing, the diff erences are less pronounced than in other Germany 34 cities (e.g. Berlin), and indeed seem benign when compared to many global cities. 35 At the turn of the twenty-fi rst century, Stuttgart is the German metropolis with 36 the largest share of residents who are either immigrants themselves or have back- 37 grounds of migration (Migrationshintergrund).26 In 2012, 39.9 percent of all Stutt- 38 garters had a Migrationshintergrund. For those under the age of three years, the 39 fi gure was 57.5 percent (Landeshauptstadt Stuttgart 2013: 12). About one fi ft h of 40 Stuttgart’s residents are foreign nationals (ibid.). 41 Examining the localization of Islam in Stuttgart, economic aspects without 42 doubt play a role, but this process is not centrally marked by a fi erce struggle over

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economic resources. It is much more of a cultural and political struggle. For in- 1 stance, controversies over the construction of mosques are not about whether or 2 not a community owns the funds to buy adequate real estate, but whether this real 3 estate is made available to them. Th e position of Islam and Muslims in Stuttgart 4 is neither characterized by ghettoization and grossly substandard housing condi- 5 tions, nor dramatically high rates of unemployment. While some Muslims occupy 6 the lower end of Stuttgart’s rental market and experiences higher rates of unem- 7 ployment, Stuttgart does not share the social problems of some Parisian housing 8 projects or British cities (e.g. Keaton 2006). In addition to the relative absence of 9 severe poverty, Stuttgart has a reasonably well-funded landscape of social and cul- 10 tural projects. Some cultural and social neighborhood centers are model projects 11 that bespeak the city’s fi nancial circumstances and an overall willingness to sup- 12 port intercultural projects. 13 Despite its considerable Muslim population (almost 10 percent of the popula- 14 tion, that is almost 60,000 people; Baden-Württemberg 2005: 10), Stuttgart, un- 15 like other regional (e.g. Sindelfi ngen, Mannheim), German (e.g. Cologne, Duis- 16 burg), or European (e.g. Dublin, Rotterdam) cities, does not have a purpose built 17 mosque. None of the city’s mosques remotely has the exterior architecture of a 18 mosque. Mosque architecture does not require many special features, indeed only 19 a mihrab (niche to indicate the direction of prayer) and a possibly a minbar (pul- 20 pit) are necessary (Serageldin 1996a: 9). Yet, mosques in the Muslim world and 21 in Muslim minority contexts frequently use an architectural grammar that makes 22 mosques recognizable as such. Holod and Khan noted that mosques in the West 23 oft en become symbolic statements that bespeak “the Muslim presence in non- 24 Muslim countries” (1997: 227), and thus are distinct from their counterparts in the 25 Muslim world. While prayer spaces can be arranged almost anywhere, mosques 26 nonetheless are symbols of political contexts, history, community, and of money 27 and power in both Muslim majority and minority contexts. Stuttgart’s mosques of- 28 fer little in terms of external architectural beauty, symbolic representation, or pres- 29 tige. Situated in less than attractive quarters or industrial zones, these mosques are 30 neither recognizable as such, nor can they serve as physical markers of communal 31 pride, or foster social recognition. 32 Over the years Stuttgart’s Muslim spiritual geography has consolidated. Start- 33 ing from late 1980 and gaining momentum in the 1990s some communities 34 bought facilities. Stuttgart’s mosques are predominantly located in defunct indus- 35 trial facilities in marginal, distant and largely non-residential areas; many use less 36 than perfect spaces. Th e search for the best-possible facilities continues to create 37 a certain movement among communities. For instance, in 2007 a Moroccan com- 38 munity moved from rented to owned premises. In 2008, a Bosnian association 39 moved from a smaller owned to a larger owned location. Another Bosnian as- 40 sociation moved to larger facilities in the same year. A look at the metropolitan 41 region indicates that Stuttgart might be a particularly resilient location with regard 42

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1 to mosque constructions, because several regional towns and cities boost purpose- 2 built mosques. One of the largest mosques in the state is located in Sindelfi ngen, 3 not far from the central Mercedes-Benz plant where migrant/immigrant work- 4 ers have been employed for over half a century (Buchmeier SZ 15.12.2006). On 5 a regular Friday about 1,000 men pray in this mosque’s large prayer room (830 6 square meters), which is topped by a dome (14 meters in height; ibid.). Th e town 7 of Schorndorf also has a purpose-built mosque complete with a minaret and 1,500 8 square meters of facilities (ibid.). 9 Th e topography of Stuttgart’s mosques illustrates the position of Islam and 10 Muslims in the city. At present the city has about twenty-fi ve mosques associa- 11 tions. Th e mosque count remains imprecise as smaller associations come and 12 go, and other associations avoid terms like Islam, Muslim, and mosque in their 13 names. For example, one (Sufi -based) group is offi cially known as “Association of 14 Turkish Parents.” Th ere is a core of about a dozen well-established communities 15 (some in their third or fourth decades of operation) with larger premises and an 16 array of services, activities, and programs for members and non-members. Mark- 17 ing these twenty-fi ve associations on the map, one fi nds the not surprising pattern 18 that, with one exception, they are located on the vague crescent of older industrial, 19 now turned multi-ethnic quarters that curve around downtown.27 Bad Cannstatt 20 is the undisputed center of Muslim Stuttgart with eight mosques. Feuerbach has 21 three, Zuff enhausen, Obertürkheim, Ost, Wangen, Süd, Mitte each have two. 22 Stuttgart-Nord has one, which is located in the dense urban part of the quarter 23 and not in its upscale hill section (Killesberg). Only an Afghan mosque, situated in 24 Stuttgart-West, is outside the crescent pattern. Wealthier quarters like Sillenbuch, 25 Möhringen, or Degerloch do not have mosques.28 Stuttgart’s mosques are almost 26 exclusively situated in multi-ethnic working-class quarters. Of the six city quar- 27 ters with the highest purchasing power, fi ve did not have mosques. Of the eight 28 quarters with the lowest purchasing power, six had mosques. Seven of the eight 29 quarters with the highest rates of unemployment had mosques; the eight quarters 30 with the lowest rates of unemployment did not have mosques. Similarly, the quar- 31 ters with mosques have higher rate of social welfare recipients and lower rates of 32 transfer to schools that prepare for university studies (Landeshauptstadt Stuttgart 33 2013). Th e quarters with mosques are the socially and economically more disad- 34 vantaged ones. 35 Stuttgart’s mosque associations are registered legal associations (Verein). Th is 36 status conveys advantages as German law favors this format of public organiza- 37 tion. Associations are given certain privileges (e.g. access to facilities, possibili- 38 ties of funding). Stuttgart’s largest mosque (by space/size) is the Salam Mosque 39 complex in Stuttgart-Feuerbach (Kuppinger 2010a, 2011b). Administered by the 40 Turkish Presidency for Religious Aff airs, this mosque is funded and organized by 41 the Presidency’s subsidiary, the DİTİB. Imams and female theologians or teachers 42 of Islamic studies are sent and paid by the Turkish state. With its superior funding

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and vast spatial complex that yields considerable rental income from numerous 1 stores, the Salam Mosque can—more than any other local mosque—engage in 2 civic activities, invite visitors and delegations, and participate in the public sphere. 3 Because of its size, activities, relative visibility, and its politically uncontroversial 4 affi liation with the Turkish state, the Salam Mosque has emerged as “the” mosque 5 in Stuttgart. 6 Th e Medina Mosque, run by the Milli Görüş (IGMG) association, claims to be 7 the largest association (by membership) in Stuttgart. Because the IGMG is on the 8 watch list of state security (Schiff auer 2010), the Medina Mosque is largely over- 9 looked or outright boycotted with regard to inclusion in civic activities and events. 10 Less political is the Verein Islamischer Kulturzentren VIKZ (Association of Islamic 11 Cultural Centers). Th is association favors personal piety situating itself in a broader 12 mystic tradition. Th e VIKZ or its regional LVIKZ (Landesverband Verein Islamischer 13 Kulturzentren) provides the frame for the Hussein and the Takva Mosques. 14 Stuttgart has two Moroccan mosques, which in part has to do with the early 15 and numerous arrivals of Moroccan workers in the 1960s. Th ese mosques are not 16 affi liated with national mosque associations. Th e largest Arab, but increasingly in- 17 ternational mosque, is the Al-Nour Mosque. With a core of Palestinian, Egyptian, 18 Syrian, and Lebanese members, this community is organizationally linked to the 19 Islamische Gemeinschaft in Deutschland IGD (Islamic Community in Deutsch- 20 land). Th e fourth Arab mosque, the Yassin Mosque, has common origins with 21 the Al-Nour Mosque, but the two eventually split over theological questions. Th e 22 Yassin Mosque, which is predominantly frequented by North Africans, in particu- 23 lar Algerians, tends to be stricter in some of their theological interpretations (e.g. 24 with regard to gender segregation). Some of its members self-identify as Salafi . 25 Th eir aim is to closely and literally follow the live and practices of the Prophet 26 Muhammad in all aspects of their lives. Th e Yassin Mosque is not part of a national 27 mosque association. 28 Th ere are smaller congregations: some are well established (e.g. a Bosnian 29 mosque), others are more recent (e.g. an Afghan mosque). Some only maintain 30 a prayer room for men (e.g. a group from Bangladesh). Some communities are in 31 fl ux as they articulate, improve, and enlarge their communities, activities, and fa- 32 cilities. One smaller Bosnian community recently moved to more spacious prem- 33 ises, which some of my interlocutors (in diff erent contexts) agreed had been nicely 34 renovated considering that this former warehouse facility has no windows. Figur- 35 ing a well-liked ethnic German preacher, several people remarked in late 2008, that 36 they liked to go there especially for holiday prayers. A small but growing number 37 of younger, more savvy, mobile, and ethnically fl exible individuals attend activities 38 in two, three, or even four mosques (not including prayers that they might attend 39 anywhere they happen to be). 40 In the wake of 9/11, Muslims were identifi ed as a group that needed to be 41 watched. In 2002 the Stuttgart police (Polizeipräsidium Stuttgart), added a special 42

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1 unit for Islamic aff airs. In addition to regular criminal aff airs, this unit was sup- 2 posed to maintain contacts with mosques, identify problems, and cooperate with 3 congregations. Simultaneously, local police departments established ties with 4 mosques, where they off ered programs about juvenile delinquency, drugs, or the 5 dangers for youth on the Internet. 6 Even before 9/11, Muslims and non-Muslims, who worried about widespread 7 Islamophobia formed platforms for more respectful dialogue. Th e Christian- 8 Islamic Society (Christlich-Islamische Gesellschaft Stuttgart e.V., CIG was founded 9 in 1998. Th is society folded in 2013 as leading members thought that some of their 10 goals had been achieved, but even more so because these activists had moved in to 11 other engagements, and there continue to play central roles in debates about Islam 12 and religion in Stuttgart. A year later in 1999 the Society for Christian-Muslim 13 Meeting and Cooperation (Gesellschaft für Christlich-Islamische Begegnung und 14 Zusammenarbeit e.V., CIBZ) followed. In 2003, the Coordination Council for 15 Christian-Muslim Dialog was founded in the Stuttgart region (Koordinationsrat 16 des christlich-islamischen Dialogs e.V.) which was to function as a national um- 17 brella organization for Christian-Muslim interfaith dialog. Th ere is an overlap of 18 activists between these organizations. 19 Th ese organizations organize activities, meetings, and lecture programs to dis- 20 seminate information, and bring Muslims and non-Muslims together. Members 21 or representatives of DİTİB, the LVIKZ mosques, the Al-Nour Mosque, the Milli 22 Görüş Mosque, and the larger Bosnian mosque are involved in interfaith dialogue 23 activities like a revolving ift ar circle (organized by CIBZ). Some mosque represen- 24 tative and other activists are very visible and known in Muslim and non-Muslim 25 circles and are frequently invited to public events and debates. Th ey form the small 26 informal core of the local pious Muslim public sphere and operate as Muslim con- 27 tacts or spokespeople on cultural or political platforms. Most know each other. 28 29 30 Urban Fieldwork 31 32 Th is research is part of a longer intellectual and personal journey. I grew up in, 33 what was in the 1960s and 1970s, a rural village that has since turned into a sub- 34 urban town outside Stuttgart. I left the area in the 1980s to study and live fi rst in 35 Egypt and later in the United States. In Egypt I conducted many years of research 36 on questions of urban communities, urban cultures, colonial urban histories, and 37 globalizing urban transformations (e.g. 1998; 2001; 2004; 2006a, 2006b; 2014). I 38 have also worked on emerging global Muslim consumer cultures (2009). In the 39 summer of 2005 on a visit to my parents, I met up with three classmates with 40 whom I had gone to school in the 1970s. We spent a long evening in a coff ee shop 41 under the open summer skies discussing all sorts of things, among them the role 42 of Islam in Germany. As we stayed—past the coff ee shop’s closing time—I realized

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how urgent this debate was. I decided to refocus the project for my upcoming 1 sabbatical from urban issues in Cairo to questions of Islam in Germany, or more 2 specifi cally in nearby Stuttgart which combined my interest in urban cultures and 3 my newfound quest to reconnect to political and cultural debates in Germany aft er 4 an absence of twenty years. 5 To examine a phenomenon as complex as processes of participation and cul- 6 tural creativity of pious Muslims in Stuttgart, multiple methodological tools and 7 a number of research sites are necessary. I chose several central and more perma- 8 nent fi eld sites and some others where I conducted occasional or random observa- 9 tions, or where I attended specifi c events or activities. In these research venues I 10 met many individuals. Some became close interlocutors, others became friends, 11 and a few became very close friends. By way of these many helpful and open- 12 hearted people, I met yet others and gained access to additional groups and spaces. 13 Ultimately I was in the fi eld wherever I was and went in the city at all times. 14 Before I moved to Stuttgart I conducted preliminary research to fi nd the most 15 suitable neighborhood to live in, and take as a central research site. My conditions 16 were that it had to be a multi-ethnic neighborhood with available rental apart- 17 ments. I narrowed my choice down to Nordbahnhof and Bad Cannstatt. In Janu- 18 ary 2006 I went to tour both neighborhoods and decided to go with Nordbahnhof 19 as it was smaller and seemed more child-friendly, especially with regard to traf- 20 fi c, street spaces, and available greenery. In September 2006 we moved to Nord- 21 bahnhof. I registered my daughters, Tamima and Tala (eight and fi ve years old in 22 2006) at the Park School. Several people warned me against sending them there, 23 as the Park School has a “bad” reputation and middle-class parents are wary of 24 this institution. Th is wariness in part bespeaks middle-class fears of immigrants 25 (more than 80 percent of the school’s students have backgrounds of migration). 26 Th e girls started their German school career in September 2006 and had an excel- 27 lent experience at the Park School. Nordbahnhof, its residents, its streets, play- 28 grounds, stores, apartment buildings, the Park School, and the “Kulturhaus” (a 29 successful multicultural neighborhood center) became some of my central fi eld 30 sites. Th rough the girls it was easy to meet some of their friends’ parents. Early on 31 I informed individuals and institutions that I was not only living in this neighbor- 32 hood, but also conducting research about the neighborhood. In the Park School 33 I served for one year as the parents’ representative in Tala’s class which gave me 34 a better understanding of the school, and also allowed me to contribute and help 35 with some school activities. I joined the Kulturhaus as a tutor in the aft ernoon 36 homework program for students from fi ft h to ninth grades. Th rough this volun- 37 teer work I became familiar with the center’s work and was later invited to help 38 with other projects. 39 My arrival in Nordbahnhof coincided with the beginning of Ramadan. In 40 search of public Ramadan events (mosques have some), I started calling mosques. 41 As local mosques do not employ permanent personnel, this was not an easy task. I 42

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1 was lucky to establish a few contacts, had a fi rst longer meeting with the president 2 of a mosque association which eventually led to an invitation to an ift ar (evening 3 meal to break the fast). From this fi rst contact and people I had met at this ift ar, 4 more contacts developed. For a while I worked to further all initial contacts, until 5 three mosques emerged as particularly suitable research sites. I chose the Salam 6 Mosque, the Hussein Mosque, and the Al-Nour Mosque as central research sites. 7 Th ese communities cover a broad specter of ethnic, religious, political, and local 8 aspects, diff erent types of spatial settings and contexts, and types of local involve- 9 ment and participation. While these mosques and their congregations are not rep- 10 resentative of all mosques, they provide a broad overview of sites, communities, 11 and activities. In each mosque I focused my research on diff erent aspects of com- 12 munal lives and activities. 13 In addition to my neighborhood and mosque research, I tried to attend all/ 14 most larger public events to do with Islam and Muslim issues. At numerous lec- 15 tures, panels, and conferences I met more individuals (Muslims and non-Muslims) 16 who shared my interests. Th ey guided me to other events, venues, and individuals. 17 Aft er a year of fi eldwork I knew most of the central actors in the Muslim public 18 sphere and non-Muslim activists involved in interfaith dialogue. 19 20 21 Overview 22 23 In the following chapters I analyze pious Muslim Stuttgart. I describe and examine 24 individuals I met, and spaces that I regularly visited. In each chapter I take a con- 25 crete urban context and analyze one element of Muslim lifeworlds, participation, 26 and cultural production. 27 Chapter 1 chronicles the confl ict over a planned mosque project in Stuttgart- 28 Heslach. In 1999 the VIKZ bought a defunct factory and planned to convert it 29 into a mosque complex. Th e announcement of these plans sparked a bitter contro- 30 versy that involved numerous urban, regional, and even national constituencies. 31 As Stuttgart’s fi rst mosque confl ict, this encounter constitutes the fi rst larger public 32 debate about the role and position of pious Muslims in the city. Residents did not 33 want a mosque in their neighborhood. Th e mosque association, used to decades of 34 relative neglect, was ill-prepared to handle such public attention and controversy. 35 Ultimately, despite the project’s failure, this confl ict made pious Muslims visible as 36 a constituency and stakeholders in Stuttgart. 37 Chapter 2 focuses on the Al-Nour Mosque and examines experiences of pious 38 individuals who are strengthening their faith, improving their pious and mundane 39 lives and activities in the context of the mosque and beyond. I show how piety for 40 most does not imply a withdrawal into a private world of mosques and worship, 41 but involves the construction of a visibly pious persona and distinctly pious mode 42 of public engagement. Th e construction of pious selves is not a hidden exercise.

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Ensuing practices are eventually carried into public spaces (e.g. school, work) 1 where they are lived, and defended against prejudices in the secular public sphere. 2 Chapter 3 introduces six individuals who act as pious Muslims in their daily 3 lives and diff erent public contexts. Oft en unnoticed by dominant society, pious 4 Muslims have carved out spaces for themselves, their families, and communities 5 that are locally shaped and connected. I challenge stereotypes of “the Muslim” who 6 stands at a distance to mainstream society. Th e men and women introduced in 7 this chapter represent the diversity of Muslim Stuttgart with regard to gender, age, 8 class, education, ethnicity, religiosity, and types of social and political engagement 9 and participation. Th ese individuals illustrate that Islam is a German religion, and 10 that many pious Muslims are engaged civic participants. 11 Chapter 4 examines widespread fears and resentment of Islam. I describe and 12 analyze an exhibition entitled “Th e Abused Religion: Islamists in Germany” that 13 was on display in Stuttgart in 2007. Th is exhibition claimed not to speak about 14 ordinary Muslims, but only aimed to depict the dangers of Islamists. However, 15 its design and implicit message were more far-reaching. Th e chapter chronicles a 16 walk through the exhibition and analyzes its overt and subtle messages. Examin- 17 ing the fi ne-tuning of the exhibition, I demonstrate the powerful nature of such 18 informational tools. I further discuss the controversial remark of the German 19 President that “Islam in part of Germany” which causes considerable debate and 20 controversy in the fall of 2010. Analyzing these concrete examples I illustrate how 21 pervasive Islamophobia is in Germany, and how easily anti-Muslim sentiments 22 can be mobilized in the public sphere. 23 Chapter 5 examines the localization of the Hussein Mosque. I introduce the old 24 village of Zuff enhausen and illustrate how it has over the centuries witnessed trav- 25 elers and armies passing through, and absorbed diverse newcomers. I chronicle 26 the village’s transformation in the late nineteenth century into an urban industrial 27 quarter. Next, I introduce the Hussein Mosque, its larger historical and religious 28 context, and some of its activities. I describe how the mosque came to be seen as 29 “our mosque” by many in the quarter. I illustrate how processes of localization 30 were neatly negotiated to ensure long-term acceptance and civic inclusion. I argue 31 that Hussein Mosque’s success is not based on a dramatically altered public opin- 32 ion about Muslims and mosques, but on the mosque president’s, board members,’ 33 and community members’ close cooperation with the local council and active par- 34 ticipation in the quarter. 35 Chapter 6 introduces the neighborhood of Nordbahnhof and illustrates how 36 this multi-ethnic working-class quarter has for more than 100 years been a place 37 where new cultural practices were initiated and notions of what it means to be a 38 Stuttgarter were negotiated to become more inclusive. Urban quarters bring di- 39 verse residents together as neighbors, shoppers, parents of school children, and 40 users of public spaces. “Talking” and “testing” Islamic practices on a neighbor- 41 hood level is an overlooked crucial element in the confi guration of pious Muslim 42

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1 lifeworlds. I introduce and examine mundane moments of cultural negotiation 2 and production where Muslims and other remake existing neighborhood cultures. 3 As a conclusion I examine the role of individual mobilities in the articulation 4 of the city’s pious Muslim geography. I illustrate how younger individuals by way 5 of their mobilities create multilayered connections, moments of cooperation, and 6 shared platforms that consolidate nascent urban Muslim spiritual geography. Th e 7 urban mobility of these young people brings the earlier globalized mobility of 8 their migrant parents and grandparents full-circle as they inscribe pious Muslim 9 practices and circuits into the contemporary cityscape. While still a work in prog- 10 ress, pious Muslims have found a home and space for themselves in Stuttgart. Th ey 11 have become Muslim Stuttgarters. 12 13 Notes 14 15 1. All personal, place, and mosque names (unless otherwise indicated) are pseudonyms. 16 I use the real names of city quarters. 2. Th e remade celebration was a success and became normalized. I attended another 17 such celebration in 2010. 18 3. An example of such writing is Th ilo Sarrazin’s Deutschland schafft sich ab [Germany 19 eliminates itself, 2010]. 20 4. David McMurray (2000) neatly chronicles the experiences of a Moroccan migrant in 21 Germany, and his family back home in Morocco. 22 5. Haider noted for a makeshift arrangement in England “it was the practice that mat- tered” (1996: 36). 23 6. A Catholic church close to Nordbahnhof for several decades had both German and 24 Italian services. Only recently they “reunited” the two communities for lack of suf- 25 fi cient members on both sides. 26 7. Not a pseudonym. Interview July 30, 2007. 27 8. A visit to the large mosque in Dublin proves Mr. Can right: on the Eid el- Fitr holi- day I encountered thousands of multicultural worshippers at this mosque located in a 28 middle-class residential neighborhood. 29 9. http://www.ditib.de. 30 10. http://www.igmg.de. 31 11. I am grateful to Ayşe Almila Akҫa for providing examples of this. 32 12. http://www.igd-online.de. 13. Th is representation has not been undisputed. Many—less pious—Muslims resent the 33 relative monopoly of mosques and mosque associations to speak for (all) Muslims. 34 14. Th e Green and Social Democratic state government that took offi ce in 2011 abolished 35 the test in the same year. 36 15. Th e following discussion centrally draws on the works of Riem Spielhaus (2011, 2013) 37 and Yasemin Yıldız (1999, 2009). 16. Th e bureaucratic defi nition of an individual mit Migrationshintergrund reads: “alle 38 nach 1949 auf das heutige Gebiet der Bundesrepublik Deutschland Zugewanderten, 39 sowie alle in Deutschland geborenen Ausländer und alle in Deutschland als Deutsche 40 Geborenen mit zumindest einem zugewanderten oder als Ausländer in Deutschland 41 geborenen Elternteil” (Statistisches Bundesamt 2013: 6). 42

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17. Th e Chair of the Green Party, Cem Özdemir, is a good example. Starting his career 1 on a distinctly secular platform, he has over the years, nevertheless, been consulted or 2 interviewed on topics concerning Islam. (See also Özdemir 1997, 1999, 2002.) 3 18. Religions take a defi nite article in German, hence der Islam, also das Christemtum (Christianity) und das Judentum (Judaism). 4 19. Udo Ulfk otte has been notorious for fostering such fears. Th e titles of some of his 5 books Prophets of Terror 2001; Th e War in our Cities 2003; Holy War in Europe 2007) 6 speak for themselves. 7 20. See the cover of Der Spiegel No.13 on March 26, 2007, which reads: “Mecca Germany: 8 Th e Silent Islamization.” 21. Kreuzberg has in recent years undergone rapid gentrifi cation. 9 22. Nordbahnhof and Hallschlag are subsections of larger quarters (Bezirk). No numbers 10 for individuals with migratory backgrounds are available for these quarters. Th ere are 11 however fi gures for the share of foreign residents. In Hallschlag 45.8 percent of the 12 residents hold foreign passports, in Nordbahnhof the fi gure is 48.9 percent. Th e fi gure 13 for Stuttgart is 16.7 percent (Landeshauptstadt Stuttgart 2006: 107; 59; 16). 14 23. Damani Partridge coined the term “exclusionary incorporation” (2012: 21). Conceptu- ally I follow his lead, but I prefer to use the term “resented inclusion.” 15 24. Keaton uses the term “suitable enemies” for the case of French Muslims of North/West 16 African descent (2006: 7). 17 25. Klausen’s (2005) study about the new European Muslim elite (political and other) pre- 18 dominantly includes more secularly inclined individuals. Th ere are numerous Mus- 19 lims (e.g. Cem Özdemir, Lale Akgün) in German politics, art, and public life (e.g. Fatih Akin, Feridun Zaimoğlu, Serdar Somonçu,), but most operate on a secular platform. 20 (See also Akgün 2008; Zaimoğlu 1998, 2000, 2003, 2005; Somonçu 2004, and Akin’s 21 well known movies, e.g., Kurz und schmerzlos, 1998; Gegen die Wand, 2004; Auf der 22 anderen Seite, 2007). 23 26. While this category (mit Migrationshintergrund) remains problematic, it is frequently 24 used in public debates. 27. Th is mapping is based on locations in 2007. 25 28. In 2008 a smaller Bosnian mosque moved to the outskirts of the wealthier quar- 26 ter of Botnang, which constitutes a break with the crescent patterns of the local 27 mosque-scape. 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42

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